It was about the sixth inning that I suspected the Rube of weakening.
For that matter he had not pitched anything resembling his usual brand
of baseball. But the Rube had developed into such a wonder in the box
that it took time for his let-down to dawn upon me. Also it took a tip
from Raddy, who sat with me on the bench.
"Con, the Rube isn't himself today," said Radbourne. "His mind's not
on the game. He seems hurried and flustered, too. If he doesn't
explode presently, I'm a dub at callin' the turn."
Raddy was the best judge of a pitcher's condition, physical or mental,
in the Eastern League. It was a Saturday and we were on the road and
finishing up a series with the Rochesters. Each team had won and lost
a game, and, as I was climbing close to the leaders in the pennant
race, I wanted the third and deciding game of that Rochester series.
The usual big Saturday crowd was in attendance, noisy, demonstrative
and exacting.
In this sixth inning the first man up for Rochester had flied to
McCall. Then had come the two plays significant of Rube's weakening.
He had hit one batter and walked another. This was sufficient,
considering the score was three to one in our favor, to bring the
audience to its feet with a howling, stamping demand for runs.
"Spears is wise all right," said Raddy.
I watched the foxy old captain walk over to the Rube and talk to him
while he rested, a reassuring hand on the pitcher's shoulder. The
crowd yelled its disapproval and Umpire Bates called out sharply:
"Spears, get back to the bag!"
"Now, Mister Umpire, ain't I hurrin' all I can?" queried Spears as he
leisurely ambled back to first.
The Rube tossed a long, damp welt of hair back from his big brow and
nervously toed the rubber. I noted that he seemed to forget the runners
on bases and delivered the ball without glancing at either bag. Of
course this resulted in a double steal. The ball went wild--almost a
wild pitch.
"Steady up, old man," called Gregg between the yells of the bleachers.
He held his mitt square over the plate for the Rube to pitch to. Again
the long twirler took his swing, and again the ball went wild. Clancy
had the Rube in the hole now and the situation began to grow serious.
The Rube did not take half his usual deliberation, and of the next two
pitches one of them was a ball and the other a strike by grace of the
umpire's generosity. Clancy rapped the next one, an absurdly slow
pitch for the Rube to use, and both runners scored to the shrill tune
of the happy bleachers.
I saw Spears shake his head and look toward the bench. It was plain
what that meant.
"Raddy, I ought to take the Rube out," I said, "but whom can I put in?
You worked yesterday--Cairns' arm is sore. It's got to be nursed. And
Henderson, that ladies' man I just signed, is not in uniform."
"I'll go in," replied Raddy, instantly.
"Not on your life." I had as hard a time keeping Radbourne from
overworking as I had in getting enough work out of some other players.
"I guess I'll let the Rube take his medicine. I hate to lose this
game, but if we have to, we can stand it. I'm curious, anyway, to see
what's the matter with the Rube. Maybe he'll settle down presently."
I made no sign that I had noticed Spears' appeal to the bench. And my
aggressive players, no doubt seeing the situation as I saw it, sang out
their various calls of cheer to the Rube and of defiance to their
antagonists. Clancy stole off first base so far that the Rube,
catching somebody's warning too late, made a balk and the umpire sent
the runner on to second. The Rube now plainly showed painful evidences
of being rattled.
He could not locate the plate without slowing up and when he did that a
Rochester player walloped the ball. Pretty soon he pitched as if he
did not care, and but for the fast fielding of the team behind him the
Rochesters would have scored more than the eight runs it got. When the
Rube came in to the bench I asked him if he was sick and at first he
said he was and then that he was not. So I let him pitch the remaining
innings, as the game was lost anyhow, and we walked off the field a
badly beaten team.
That night we had to hurry from the hotel to catch a train for
Worcester and we had dinner in the dining-car. Several of my players'
wives had come over from Worcester to meet us, and were in the
dining-car when I entered. I observed a pretty girl sitting at one of
the tables with my new pitcher, Henderson.
"Say, Mac," I said to McCall, who was with me, "is Henderson married?"
"Naw, but he looks like he wanted to be. He was in the grand stand
today with that girl."
"Who is she? Oh! a little peach!"
A second glance at Henderson's companion brought this compliment from
me involuntarily.
"Con, you'll get it as bad as the rest of this mushy bunch of ball
players. We're all stuck on that kid. But since Henderson came she's
been a frost to all of us. An' it's put the Rube in the dumps."
"Who's the girl?"
"That's Nan Brown. She lives in Worcester an' is the craziest girl fan
I ever seen. Flirt! Well, she's got them all beat. Somebody
introduced the Rube to her. He has been mooney ever since."
That was enough to whet my curiosity, and I favored Miss Brown with
more than one glance during dinner. When we returned to the parlor car
I took advantage of the opportunity and remarked to Henderson that he
might introduce his manager. He complied, but not with amiable grace.
So I chatted with Nan Brown, and studied her. She was a pretty,
laughing, coquettish little minx and quite baseball mad. I had met
many girl fans, but none so enthusiastic as Nan. But she was wholesome
and sincere, and I liked her.
Before turning in I sat down beside the Rube. He was very quiet and his
face did not encourage company. But that did not stop me.
"Hello, Whit; have a smoke before you go to bed?" I asked cheerfully.
He scarcely heard me and made no move to take the proffered cigar. All
at once it struck me that the rustic simplicity which had characterized
him had vanished.
"Whit, old fellow, what was wrong today?" I asked, quietly, with my
hand on his arm.
"Mr. Connelly, I want my release, I want to go back to Rickettsville,"
he replied hurriedly.
For the space of a few seconds I did some tall thinking. The situation
suddenly became grave. I saw the pennant for the Worcesters fading,
dimming.
"You want to go home?" I began slowly. "Why, Whit, I can't keep you. I
wouldn't try if you didn't want to stay. But I'll tell you
confidentially, if you leave me at this stage I'm ruined."
"How's that?" he inquired, keenly looking at me.
"Well, I can't win the pennant without you. If I do win it there's a
big bonus for me. I can buy the house I want and get married this fall
if I capture the flag. You've met Milly. You can imagine what your
pitching means to me this year. That's all."
He averted his face and looked out of the window. His big jaw quivered.
"If it's that--why, I'll stay, I reckon," he said huskily.
That moment bound Whit Hurtle and Frank Connelly into a far closer
relation than the one between player and manager. I sat silent for a
while, listening to the drowsy talk of the other players and the rush
and roar of the train as it sped on into the night.
"Thank you, old chap," I replied. "It wouldn't have been like you to
throw me down at this stage. Whit, you're in trouble?"
"Yes."
"Can I help you--in any way?"'
"I reckon not."
"Don't be too sure of that. I'm a pretty wise guy, if I do say it
myself. I might be able to do as much for you as you're going to do
for me."
The sight of his face convinced me that I had taken a wrong tack. It
also showed me how deep Whit's trouble really was. I bade him good
night and went to my berth, where sleep did not soon visit me. A
saucy, sparkling-eyed woman barred Whit Hurtle's baseball career at its
threshold.
Women are just as fatal to ball players as to men in any other walk of
life. I had seen a strong athlete grow palsied just at a scornful
slight. It's a great world, and the women run it. So I lay awake
racking my brains to outwit a pretty disorganizer; and I plotted for
her sake. Married, she would be out of mischief. For Whit's sake, for
Milly's sake, for mine, all of which collectively meant for the sake of
the pennant, this would be the solution of the problem.
I decided to take Milly into my confidence, and finally on the strength
of that I got to sleep. In the morning I went to my hotel, had
breakfast, attended to my mail, and then boarded a car to go out to
Milly's house. She was waiting for me on the porch, dressed as I liked
to see her, in blue and white, and she wore violets that matched the
color of her eyes.
"Hello, Connie. I haven't seen a morning paper, but I know from your
face that you lost the Rochester series," said Milly, with a gay laugh.
"I guess yes. The Rube blew up, and if we don't play a pretty smooth
game, young lady, he'll never come down."
Then I told her.
"Why, Connie, I knew long ago. Haven't you seen the change in him
before this?"
"What change?" I asked blankly.
"You are a man. Well, he was a gawky, slouchy, shy farmer boy when he
came to us. Of course the city life and popularity began to influence
him. Then he met Nan. She made the Rube a worshipper. I first
noticed a change in his clothes. He blossomed out in a new suit, white
negligee, neat tie and a stylish straw hat. Then it was evident he was
making heroic struggles to overcome his awkwardness. It was plain he
was studying and copying the other boys. He's wonderfully improved, but
still shy. He'll always be shy. Connie, Whit's a fine fellow, too
good for Nan Brown."
"But, Milly," I interrupted, "the Rube's hard hit. Why is he too good
for her?"
"Nan is a natural-born flirt," Milly replied. "She can't help it. I'm
afraid Whit has a slim chance. Nan may not see deep enough to learn
his fine qualities. I fancy Nan tired quickly of him, though the one
time I saw them together she appeared to like him very well. This new
pitcher of yours, Henderson, is a handsome fellow and smooth. Whit is
losing to him. Nan likes flash, flattery, excitement."
"McCall told me the Rube had been down in the mouth ever since
Henderson joined the team. Milly, I don't like Henderson a whole lot.
He's not in the Rube's class as a pitcher. What am I going to do?
Lose the pennant and a big slice of purse money just for a pretty
little flirt?"
"Oh, Connie, it's not so bad as that. Whit will come around all right."
"He won't unless we can pull some wires. I've got to help him win Nan
Brown. What do you think of that for a manager's job? I guess maybe
winning pennants doesn't call for diplomatic genius and cunning! But
I'll hand them a few tricks before I lose. My first move will be to
give Henderson his release."
I left Milly, as always, once more able to make light of
discouragements and difficulties.
Monday I gave Henderson his unconditional release. He celebrated the
occasion by verifying certain rumors I had heard from other managers.
He got drunk. But he did not leave town, and I heard that he was
negotiating with Providence for a place on that team.
Radbourne pitched one of his gilt-edged games that afternoon against
Hartford and we won. And Milly sat in the grand stand, having contrived
by cleverness to get a seat next to Nan Brown. Milly and I were
playing a vastly deeper game than baseball--a game with hearts. But we
were playing it with honest motive, for the good of all concerned, we
believed, and on the square. I sneaked a look now and then up into the
grand stand. Milly and Nan appeared to be getting on famously. It was
certain that Nan was flushed and excited, no doubt consciously proud of
being seen with my affianced. After the game I chanced to meet them on
their way out. Milly winked at me, which was her sign that all was
working beautifully.
I hunted up the Rube and bundled him off to the hotel to take dinner
with me. At first he was glum, but after a while he brightened up
somewhat to my persistent cheer and friendliness. Then we went out on
the hotel balcony to smoke, and there I made my play.
"Whit, I'm pulling a stroke for you. Now listen and don't be offended.
I know what's put you off your feed, because I was the same way when
Milly had me guessing. You've lost your head over Nan Brown. That's
not so terrible, though I daresay you think it's a catastrophe.
Because you've quit. You've shown a yellow streak. You've lain down.
"My boy, that isn't the way to win a girl. You've got to scrap. Milly
told me yesterday how she had watched your love affairs with Nan, and
how she thought you had given up just when things might have come your
way. Nan is a little flirt, but she's all right. What's more, she was
getting fond of you. Nan is meanest to the man she likes best. The
way to handle her, Whit, is to master her. Play high and mighty. Get
tragical. Then grab her up in your arms. I tell you, Whit, it'll all
come your way if you only keep your nerve. I'm your friend and so is
Milly. We're going out to her house presently--and Nan will be there."
The Rube drew a long, deep breath and held out his hand. I sensed
another stage in the evolution of Whit Hurtle.
"I reckon I've taken baseball coachin'," he said presently, "an' I
don't see why I can't take some other kind. I'm only a rube, an'
things come hard for me, but I'm a-learnin'."
It was about dark when we arrived at the house.
"Hello, Connie. You're late. Good evening, Mr. Hurtle. Come right
in. You've met Miss Nan Brown? Oh, of course; how stupid of me!"
It was a trying moment for Milly and me. A little pallor showed under
the Rube's tan, but he was more composed than I had expected. Nan got
up from the piano. She was all in white and deliciously pretty. She
gave a quick, glad start of surprise. What a relief that was to my
troubled mind! Everything had depended upon a real honest liking for
Whit, and she had it.
More than once I had been proud of Milly's cleverness, but this night
as hostess and an accomplice she won my everlasting admiration. She
contrived to give the impression that Whit was a frequent visitor at
her home and very welcome. She brought out his best points, and in her
skillful hands he lost embarrassment and awkwardness. Before the
evening was over Nan regarded Whit with different eyes, and she never
dreamed that everything had not come about naturally. Then Milly
somehow got me out on the porch, leaving Nan and Whit together.
"Milly, you're a marvel, the best and sweetest ever," I whispered.
"We're going to win. It's a cinch."
"Well, Connie, not that--exactly," she whispered back demurely. "But
it looks hopeful."